


Away

by trashyeggroll



Series: Worth the Fall (ThunderGrace Boxing AU) [5]
Category: Black Lightning (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, PWP, Sexting, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyeggroll/pseuds/trashyeggroll
Summary: Grace is out of town on a business trip, but it doesn't mean she can't still have some fun with Anissa.
Relationships: Grace Choi/Anissa Pierce
Series: Worth the Fall (ThunderGrace Boxing AU) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1395292
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Away

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone. ThunderGrace is married with two kids is about all you need to know!
> 
> I started writing this when my wife and I had to go into separate isolation after she had a positive COVID test. Luckily, she didn't have very serious symptoms and has recovered, and I tested negative, but being apart and fearing for her health definitely put me in my FEELINGS.

_ “...news, let’s talk Seattle Storm, huh? An entire roster brimming with charismatic players…”  _

Something tickles at Anissa’s nose, and she instinctively jerks her head to the side, which is enough to shake herself awake. Her eyes feel dry and hot, and it takes a few seconds for the world to sharpen down from vague blotches of color to things that she recognizes. 

Mainly, her children, who are splayed over her legs like they melted there, limbs strangely askew: Hanh, finishing out the first grade, and Jefferson, going through the awkward, emotional transition between toddler and a “big kid”. The thing that had brushed her nose turns out to be the feathered handle of Jefferson’s purple magic wand, his current favorite bring-it-everywhere, sobbing-breakdowns-when-it-gets-lost toy.

_ “...you have to look at the advertising budget, the way the players build their own brands and fanbase on social media…”  _

The talking heads on ESPN never fail to lull the children to sleep, but Anissa mutes the TV in hopes that they stay asleep for the next part. She tucks the sparkly wand in the pocket of her sweatpants, then bundles one kid under each arm to take to their respective rooms. The boxer gets some piteous whimpers and confused looks from bleary brown eyes, but otherwise, they seem down for the count. 

Of course, thirty minutes later, Anissa’s half asleep again when she bolts awake, her subconscious panicking about the tiny face peering at her from the edge of the mattress, barely discernible in just the dim nightlight in the master bathroom. Apparently, Jefferson wanted a glass of water. 

Her blood pressure finally drops to normal about an hour after that little scare, and the boxer spends an irresponsible amount of time scrolling through Instagram and reading the news on her phone.

She’s just about to set the phone on her bedside table for the night when it chirps and buzzes with a text message alert that drops down from the top of the screen. 

**Are you still awake?**

A smile instantly tugs at Anissa’s lips. Her wife had been out of town for a full week, gallivanting around the Big Apple, dangling the rights to her comic book characters in front of salivating media executives. She was indescribably happy for her wife, who had had an interest in expanding the universe of her art for a long time… but like with any trip they took apart from one another, sleeping alone felt strange and unsettling. 

Text messages are always a nice little bump of endorphins, though, and Anissa hastily replies in the affirmative, along with an old-fashioned smiling emoji. Nothing fancy. Her brain is winding down for the night. 

Grace responds almost as quickly:  **Kids down?**

_ Hmmm. _ Anissa sits up at that, eyes narrowing as she peers at the glowing screen. They’d long ago made a pact not to micromanage each other’s parenting when the other was away, but this hour is  _ well _ past bedtime; without much detective work, the boxer knows that Grace has a different subject than family routine in mind. 

  
“Yeah, in their rooms,” Anissa mouths to herself as she types the words and hits ‘send’.

**I want to show you something**

With her pulse pounding the way it is, all the boxer can think of for a reply is the nervous, blushing cheeks emoji.

Instantly, three dots pop up on the lefthand side of the message screen, and then disappear for long enough that Anissa’s curiosity almost starts giving way to sleepiness. She’s three-quarters of the way through a yawn when the next text arrives, accompanied by a photo that nearly has her biting her tongue off, like she’d closed both hands on a live wire: a generous expanse of Grace’s golden skin.

**Wish you were here**

Her wife is naked from the tip of her chin down to the white sheets of her hotel bed, which are bunched just below her bellybutton. The high, selfie angle gives Anissa a perfect view of the enticing curves of Grace’s hips and collarbones, and her throat tightens when she sees her wife’s free hand palming her bare left breast, with soft, pillowy flesh overflowing her fingertips.

_ Ah _ . Despite the amount of blood rushing south, away from her brain, Anissa can pick up on the plot from there. With fumbling fingers and quick breaths, the boxer manages to text back six of the drooling emoji and just the word “want”.

Perhaps it’s not the most romantic or sexiest response, but it’s all Anissa can do to keep a grip on her phone as her eyes drink in the photo, down to the last pixel. The artist’s tanned skin is a stark contrast to the crisp, bleached sheets, and Anissa licks her lips as she vividly remembers what it’s like to wrap them around the dark brown, hardened nipple of Grace’s exposed breast, or to have her own hand squeezing the silky flesh of the other, drinking in her wife’s moans at the treatment. In their five years of marriage, Anissa had had the blessed luck to do those things hundreds, if not thousands of times—but at this very moment, the recollection of Grace’s body is a poor, dim stand-in to having her wife actually there with her, arching against her body, warm and wet… 

Her phone chirps again, and Anissa kicks the comforter off her legs out of frustration, and in anticipation. It’s a video this time, with most of the preview image blocked by the ‘play’ icon and no accompanying text. The boxer smashes her thumb to the screen and slips her AirPods into her ears, then cranks the volume.

The camera angle’s moved slightly, and instead of being wrapped around one of her breasts, Grace’s free hand lazily trails two fingertips down the center of her chest, dragging the boxer’s gaze with them. Anissa knows every peak and valley of her wife’s body, every stretch mark and scar, and still, the sight of Grace hooking a finger into the sheets to pull them down, revealing the neatly trimmed patch of black hair between her legs… Without so much as a touch, Anissa’s already so sensitive that she has to squirm out of her sleep shorts, and the just the pressure of shift of her thighs sends jolts of pleasure through her lower body. 

Before anything else arrives, Anissa realizes she’s being rude, and maybe a little bit of her professional competitiveness floats to the surface, too. Two can play this game. She yanks her sports bra over her head and lifts her phone, struggling somewhat to get the angle right, but manages to take and send a picture she knows Grace will like: from her collarbones down to her hips, with her pectoral and abdominal muscles flexing in the dim light of the bedside table.

The response is almost instant, and it’s just the tongue emoji, which brings a smile to Anissa’s lips, despite the urgency rising in her belly. She sends another photo with her free arm curled around her chest, bicep bulging under her dark, hardened nipples.

Satisfied that she’s made a substantial contribution to the exchange, Anissa finally lets her hand journey below her bellybutton, and the first press of her fingertips against her swollen clit has the boxer letting out a long, low sigh of relief. 

Before she can get very far, her phone pings again, and Anissa freezes in a moment of torturous indecision before deciding to try a compromise—she manages to unlock her phone with one hand, without stopping the movement of the other. She watches the five-second video four times in a row.

_ “I miss you…”  _ Grace’s honeyed voice says over a close-up of two of her fingers sliding against her clit with purpose, and Anissa matches the pace with her own, mouth watering at the combination of sight and sound.  _ “Wish this was you…” _

She’s still in a replay when the next video arrives. The thumbnail alone would’ve made Anissa’s eyes roll back if she weren’t so desperate to drink in every frame of the clip: Grace’s ruddy brown labia wrapped around two gleaming gold fingers as they glide in and out, making obscene, wet sucking sounds. Her wife’s shuddering, muffled moans nearly send Anissa over the edge, but she isn’t quite done playing yet. 

Despite her unstable grip, Anissa manages to make a film of her own. She dips her fingers down to her entrance, gathering enough slick arousal that it drips in shining strands between her knuckles as she shows off the effect for the camera and groans, “See what you do to me?”

Heat races across her skin when Anissa’s hand returns to work, circling her throbbing clit with firm pressure, eyes fluttering shut as she fills in the blanks of the videos, imagining how Grace’s hips would rock against her palm, how her inner muscles would grip her knuckles with smooth, silky heat… She’s so worked up that she almost tips over into sweet relief before the next attachment pops up, but she’s also so worked up that waiting to watch isn’t a choice, and her occupied wrist slows as she manages to shakily hit ‘play’ one more time. 

_ “Fuck, baby…” _ It’s the longest one yet, and Anissa can’t stifle the whimper that escapes her throat at the desperate, rough edge to her wife’s voice. Grace had set the phone down on the bed, giving herself the freedom of two hands to fuck herself for the camera, burying two fingers to the hilt over and over again and frantically rubbing her visibly swollen clit.

Anissa moans to the empty bedroom air at the sound of her wife’s shallow, quick breaths, which always mean Grace is close to coming apart. The boxer rolls onto her stomach, face smashed into a pillow to muffle her groans, both hands tucked between her legs, hips grinding forward to add pressure to her clit. The pillow still smells faintly like Grace’s shampoo, and the scent triggers something in her mind and body that makes sticky arousal stream past her fingers to the bed, and when she hears Grace say her name through a high-pitched whine, Anissa somehow finds the presence of mind to turn her head to watch the final frames.

And what a sight. Grace’s hips buck up into empty air as she comes around her glistening fingers. With the artist’s other hand parted in a ‘V’ around her clit, Anissa gets to watch, breathless, as the exposed bundle of nerves twitches and throbs in time with Grace’s gasping breatbs, and the whole of it finally sends Anissa careening into bliss. Her back arches, the pressure in her lower belly contracts to a pinpoint, and then bursts. Her body shudders and seizes through the surging waves of pleasure that wash from the tips of her toes to her hazy head, shoved back into the pillow to drown out her relieved groans.

The powerful pulses and aftershocks go on for awhile, until Anissa grimaces at the feel of a rapidly-cooling wet spot in the sheets, under her hips. The discomfort of it shakes her mind out of its euphoric fog, and the silence of her post-orgasm clarity moment leaves the boxer feeling… lonely.

After wiping her hands on the sheets, Anissa melts onto her side and lets out a long sigh. Usually, this would be when she and Grace curled around each other, all tangled legs and sweat and muffled laughter. If the kids’ monitors were quiet, they might sneak downstairs for a little post-sex pick-me-up: toast with butter and blackberry jelly, or slices of fresh mango. Things that were indulgent and messy and allowed Anissa an excuse to kiss away the taste of sex and sweetness from her wife’s lips before they fell asleep. 

But all she had was cold sheets and the final frame of the last video Grace had sent: She’d withdrawn her fingers after Anissa stopped watching, leaving an enduring image of her pussy flushed red and puffy, labia still petaled open from her fingers… Anissa sighs, suddenly feeling more frustrated than before Grace had even started sending the photos, like she hadn’t come at all. 

It just isn’t the same. Her body and mind need more than this—more of  _ Grace _ than this. And she still has three days to wait until the trip is over, a thought which makes the boxer groan again, as if the walls of their bedroom would care. 

She’s just about to abandon her phone for the night, or at least attempt to, when Grace’s next text arrives, and it makes her stomach drop:

**Check the front door cam**

Anissa bolts upright when the words register, and she finds the Ring app with shaking hands. Through the fish-eye lens, she watches a Lyft pull up to the curb in front of their house, and the driver gets out to open the trunk… Anissa doesn’t dare believe it’s true, until she sees Grace step out of the backseat of the Prius, waving up at the camera and smiling. 

—

It’s a predictably sticky, warm night in New Orleans when Grace arrives on her flight from New York. She stuffs her scarf and jacket into the outer pockets of her luggage and walks briskly through the airport to the rideshare pickup area, having completed this particular trek dozens of times since her work began to bleed into areas of entertainment other than comics. A couple studios were sniffing around the television rights for Thunder the superhero, which had called her to New York this time, but her final few days of meetings had to be rescheduled due to some kind of “media emergency” or other. Grace didn’t much care for those details.

What she  _ did _ care about was getting back to her family. With Jefferson starting to form coherent sentences and Hanh getting old enough to explore having space independent from her moms, Grace felt more and more like each day was one of precious few left with her family in that sweet “baby” phase, before all the hormones and self-discovery and existential dread.

Not that having two young children wasn’t difficult; the problems were just different, and a degree more likely to involve throwing oneself on the ground (whether that be carpet, hardwood floors, dirt, freshly mowed grass, concrete or literally anything else) to work out some feelings. 

And as much as she dreaded hearing her daughter or son one day spit the h-word at any of their parents or grandparents, Grace felt persistently, annoyingly optimistic about it all. She wasn’t facing any of  _ that _ alone, as she’d once feared. She had Anissa Washington-Choi, world class athlete and world class mom. Anissa “Thunder” Pierce broke bones and bodies for a living, but Grace’s Anissa was the one who would spend all of tummy time also laying flat on the floor with their son, staring into his eyes with such affection that the glow of it seemed to fill the whole house. Grace’s Anissa could be bullheaded and reactive, but she was never cruel or malicious. They had the chops to go the distance together.

Which was why… whenever she had the chance, Grace liked to keep things interesting, however possible. She’d felt a bit foolish filming her own little modern-day verison sex tape in her hotel room the day before, and while the orgasm had been intense, it was nowhere  _ near _ as satisfying as if it’d really been Anissa driving her into the mattress. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time they’d dealt with the distance that way, and that made the initial exchange the perfect cover. 

Playing along was more difficult than she’d anticipated. Anissa’s one video nearly made her knees buckle while waiting for her Lyft, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat for the whole ride, too turned on to handle much consistent pressure against her clit.

But, the self-inflicted suffering was also more than worth it at the moment when Anissa threw open the front door, grabbing Grace’s suitcase with one hand and her hip with the other, to drag them both inside the darkened foyer. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” warns Grace, laughing quietly as Anissa’s lips latch onto her neck, teeth just barely sinking into the skin. The boxer uses her hips to push Grace back against the front door, closing it with a solid  _ thump. _

“You gotta lotta nerve,” Anissa hisses just under her ear, sounding both furious and very, very turned on. The hot brush of her breath makes the hairs on Grace’s neck stand on end, and she bites her lip to smother a moan when her wife’s powerful hips drive hers  _ hard _ into the steel-reinforced door again. “Can’t tell if this means you love me or hate me.” 

“Oh no, poor thing,” Grace manages to dish back while Anissa’s hands pull at the hem of her shirt. “Getting dirty photos from your wife? Tội.”

The last makes Anissa chuckle, and the boxer pauses her desperate search for skin contact in order to kiss her wife properly, resting her forehead against Grace’s when it tapers to an end. “Hi, babe. Missed you.”

“I missed you too.” The artist bumps her nose against Anissa’s, grinning. Even in the dark, Grace can see the sheen of sweat on Anissa’s neck and shoulders, and she certainly can feel the shallow, desperate shake in her wife’s arms and chest, still pinning her tightly against the door despite the light moment. It’s not from supporting Grace’s weight—Anissa could do that with one arm—but from holding herself back. 

“Think you can keep quiet?”

Grace blinks, letting her head fall back against the cool door as she realizes why the boxer’s asking. It’s risky, with the kids just barely sleeping through the night consistently, but… the sound of a door opening overhead would give them enough warning. She forgoes replying verbally, instead capturing Anissa’s plush lips for another kiss and folding her arms around those impressive shoulders.

Kissing Anissa had yet to lose any of its shine. The softness of her lips, the insistent press of her hot tongue—Grace’s toes curl as she greedily swallows her wife’s tiny groans, and tingles shoot down her spine when she feels silky heat smear across her leg, trapped between Anissa’s again. 

If Anissa’s already come, Grace can’t tell, because her dear wife is practically pawing at her clothes, seemingly too focused on rubbing herself against Grace’s legging-covered thigh. She also answered the door stark naked, which wouldn’t have been visible from the curb, but isn’t something Anissa would do, day or night, in her right state of mind. Her plan to tease Anissa into oblivion is turning out better than she’d even dreamed—but Grace  _ definitely _ hasn’t come yet, and she isn’t going to get off like this. 

“Baby,” she whispers, pushing at Anissa’s shoulders, hard and immobile as stone. “Baby, let me just…” 

A sharp nip at her world champion’s jaw does the trick, and Anissa blinks at her hazily before nodding and leaning back slightly, allowing Grace to snake a hand between them. She drags her stained leggings and soaked panties to her knees in one tug, but that’s as far as she gets before Anissa surges forward again, planting sucking kisses along Grace’s collarbone and pushing her hands aside. 

With easy access granted, Anissa doesn’t waste time, holding Grace against the door with one arm and dipping a hand between her legs with the other. The artist goes practically limp when Anissa slides two fingers inside with one firm push, bypassing Grace’s straining clit entirely. Her inner walls shudder around the thick intrusion, and the fullness gives her the first flash of the deep, sweet relief she’s craved since sending that initial text message. Anissa gives her a heartbeat to adjust, and then her arm tenses and pulls back, rough knuckles sliding against smooth muscles until Grace is nearly empty, and when she slams forward to the hilt, it tears a high sob from the artist’s throat.

“You’ve been thinking about this since yesterday then, hmm?” Anissa mutters while her buried fingers flex and curl, sending flashes of pleasure up Grace’s spine, but doing nothing to drive her towards release. “Was it worth it?”

Summoning her last scraps of coherent thought, Grace arches, pushing herself harder onto her wife’s hand and grinning through the exquisite stretch as she replies, “Don’t know yet. Show me.”

Things escalate quickly from there. Having been teased and challenged, a grunting, single-minded Anissa fucks into her harder and deeper with each stroke, until the reinforced door starts to shake in its hinges when her fingers bottom out. Grace’s body is eager to help, gushing slick arousal around Anissa’s knuckles, so much that Grace can feel warmth dripping down her thighs. Dimly, she’s aware that she’ll probably wake up bruised from the force of her back hitting the hardwood, but all she can care about in the moment is taking everything Anissa will give her. 

It’s quiet in the foyer, the rest of the house all stillness and shadow. It’s just the two of them at the center of the universe, Anissa’s hot breath under her ear, Grace’s blunt fingernails dragging uselessly down the boxer’s sweaty back. Her eyelids flutter and almost close when three fingers curl into her front wall, skidding against that perfect spot, but Grace forces them to stay open, because the sight of her wife’s cool black eyes shining in the moonlight with equal parts affection and need… In her life alongside Anissa, Grace keeps finding that the limit to the number of times she could fall in love with the same person does not exist. 

And while  _ this _ particular pastime isn’t  _ quite _ as whimsically romantic as that thought, Grace still considers it a once-in-a-lifetime kind of perk.

Helpless to the deep pull of the orgasm building in her belly, Grace manages to slip a hand between them, to where Anissa’s clit, throbbing with fullness, has been rubbing frantically against her soaked thigh. The angle’s difficult, and she can barely breathe from the pressure of Anissa filling her so thoroughly and the  _ thunk _ of her shoulders and hips against the door, but Grace manages to find the right angle to let the sensitive bud catch against her fingertips on every lunge. 

That’s her last intelligible action before the looming wave crashes over her head, and Grace’s mouth goes slack around a silent shout. Her limbs lock, heels digging into her Anissa’s lower back, inner muscles clenching frantically around still-pumping fingers, and her vision blurs.

Anissa’s rhythm falters as the syrupy haze of Grace’s peak begins to fade, and after a final, hard press against the artist’s trapped fingers, she crumples forward, burying her face in Grace’s collarbone to muffle ragged groans. Panting through her own aftershocks, Grace flexes her thighs around her wife’s hips, helping support her own weight, and rubs soothing circles across Anissa’s back, until the rhythmic twitches traveling up and down her body subside.

When Anissa finally leans back enough to let Grace slide down the door, the artist’s legs wobble and shake as soon as her feet touch the cool floor, and she hisses through her teeth when Anissa’s fingers start retreating, in gentle stops and starts that send tiny jolts of overstimulated pleasure through Grace’s core, until they pull out on a gush of wetness that shimmers in sticky strands between her thighs.

“Much better than a video,” Anissa teases, making a show of popping her fingers into her mouth one by one to suck them clean.

“You’re trying to kill me.” Grace grabs her wife’s chin and drags that smug face in for a kiss, reveling in the taste of herself on Anissa’s lips.

“Mmm, mm. You’re stuck with me for the long haul, baby.”

Though she rolls her eyes to give the playful response that always makes her wife smile, Grace’s chest warms at the affirmation, and she knows that Anissa knows it, too. The unspoken sweetness of it is a stark contrast to the frenzied reunion just minutes earlier, but no less of an important moment of their marriage. 

With the urgency gone from the night air, Grace tugs up her leggings, ignoring the way they stick to her wet skin, and raises an eyebrow at her wife when she notices a tear in the neck of her Tulane t-shirt.

“I got a little excited,” laughs Anissa, grinning with a hint of genuine bashfulness. “Now come on… I’m kinda cold.”

Grace shakes her head, but lets the boxer braid their fingers together and lead her upstairs, luggage forgotten by the front door. Her world champion fighter, who demanded to be cuddled to sleep after she came. Grace wouldn’t have her any other way. 

“I missed you so much,” Anissa murmurs when they settle into the sheets, after a quick rinse in the shower and dueling swishes of mouthwash. “It’s  _ stupid _ how much I miss you.”

The boxer’s cheek is smushed against her chest, one heavy arm thrown across Grace’s belly. She strokes the soft, wispy baby hairs on Anissa’s forehead, at the edge of her headwrap, and uses her thumb to massage circles around her wife’s temples while a heavy contentment settles over her bones. She plants a kiss to the smooth fabric under her chin. 

“Kids are gonna be so hype t’ see you,” her sleepy boxer continues mumbling, the words just barely more understandable than Jefferson’s clunky three-year-old sentences. “We all missed you.”

As if to accentuate the assertion, their four-legged son, Bingo, chooses that moment to slither onto the bed, tail going wild even as his head presses flat to the mattress, trying to be as unassuming as possible while begging for pets with devastated doe eyes.

And Grace relents, scratching along his square forehead for a few minutes while Anissa’s breathing slows, and she relaxes in Grace’s arms, heavy and warm with sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr [@trashyeggroll](https://trashyeggroll.tumblr.com/post/632590580004896768/away-rated-e-now-on-ao3-summary-grace-is-out)
> 
> tội = slang, adjacent to calling someone "poor thing" but more of the emotion behind that sentiment than the actual words; the whole phrase is usually "tội nghiệp quá", said by aunties pinching your cheeks


End file.
